Justin's Journal
by SanchezSlytherinReturns
Summary: The secret journal of a young Hogwarts student.
1. OMG! READ ME FIRST! ROFL

Ok, before we get this party started, let me point out a few things.

Yes, I know the main character said that he was muggle-born in the books. Don't worry, the reason why he said this will be explained. As well anything else that might be misleading and/or confusing.

Just...trust me.

And enjoy.

Kk?


	2. Entry the first: Formalities

Ok, I'll write in this. Against my will, mind you. This journal, you see, was a gift. Gifts are meant to be enjoyed. A new broomstick, for example. You can fly with it, you can show it off, you can beat the living hell out of small animals (mainly humans) with it, whatever. A gift's purpose in life is to lighten your spirits, relax you, give you those few and far between moments where you totally and completely forget about everyone's favorite son-of-a-bitch, life. When gifts become chores, then they suck balls. Big balls. Like, gallon-cum balls.  
  
Ah, greetings are in order. My name is Justin Finch and I hate my parents. Yes yes, everyone hates their parents, I know. I also know this: Fuck you. As I was saying, I hate my parents. Not in that, 'Oh, I hate Mondays!' or, 'Oh, I hate waking up early!' or, 'Oh, I hate when semen runs down my leg all day whenever Tom forgets a rubber!' kind-of-way. More like the way Hitler hated the Jews. Only, more murder, less rape. Or is it the other way around?  
  
Continuing, I guess. I'm eleven years old and incredibly vulgar. This I realize, this I enjoy. I attribute it to the famous comedian my father used to adore, meaning I also grew to love, Spurcus Canticum, who usually made a joke about his last name with his famous, 'Can't I cum?' bit. Spurcus was known in the Wizarding community as "The Minister of Laughs." People wonder why he killed himself.  
  
I did say that I hate my parents, and I do, but I'll get into that later. However, I also said something positive regarding my father. Allow me to explain. My dad, as in the birth variety, is cool. My step-dad and my mother, aren't. It's simple, really, but I guess I'll give a better example. My father, for my birthday, sent me a signed quaffle by the entire Falmouth Falcons roster, the greatest team in the history of Quidditch, if I neglected to mention that. Suck it, Montrose.  
  
Ironic that my favorite Quidditch team is from Falmouth. Think about it Fal-Mouth. I'll let you get the joke. And if you don't, you're a dumbass. Dumbass.  
  
Anyway, my step-dad got me this shitty-ass journal, which now my mum is forcing me to write in. My step-dad finds it hilarious to refer to it as "Justin's Journal!". "Having fun writing in J squared, son?". Sigh.  
  
My parents split when I was five. My dad is a sports journalist for the Daily Prophet. He writes under the pseudonym of Mendax (most wicked name ever) Apello. I haven't seen him in a while, but that's nothing new. He was always following the Falcons, or heading over to the states to cover a Finch game or two. And by that, I mean the Fitchburg Finches from Masssalongassname. We always used to joke about how that team should pay us royalty fees for using our name. Good times. Great prices.  
  
Speaking of the states, I might as well go into why I hate my parents. Meaning, as previously stated, my mother and my step-father. My step-father especially. He's an American who married my mum two years. I remember those days. The Pre-Frank days. The good days. Ok, so my mum was depressed almost constantly, but most of it, I believe, was for show. She used to bad-mouth my dad all the time, and then talk about how all the men in Windsor were daft pricks. Aside from that, though, everything was great. I was being privately tutored by a guy my mum hired named Mr. Romulus. He was cool. Most of my other friends talked about getting real stuffy old women who usually lectured them on posture and smelled like cottage cheese. Mr. Romulus was different. He always looked hung-over, but he didn't seem like the drinking type. He had a good sense of humor, and was a really good teacher.  
  
And no, I wasn't gay over him.  
  
Then Frank rolled around. I mean that literally, too. Ok, I don't, but still, he did show up in a rather absurd fashion. Good ole Frankie Fletchley! Here's the wonderful, romantic story of how my mother met my step-father.  
  
He puked on her.  
  
Yup.  
  
Puke.  
  
Frank was in England for the first time. Vacation, which is how most American wizards invade our country. He was visiting this pub outside of Windsor and was ripped out of his mind. My mother was down there too. A group of her girlfriends were there for their weekly support group, or as I like to call it, "Divorced Inebriated Ladies Drinking Outrageously".

I'm a fan of acronyms.  
  
Anyway, mum was on her way to the toilets when a completely sloshed American decided to work his "magic". His chunky, green magic. My mum, of course, freaked, but then felt pity. A subsequent number of dates ensued, and after six months, marriage. I faked sick. Didn't work. Fucking Zonko's.  
  
After that, Frank moved up here with us, and took a bullshit job at the Ministry. I think he was some sort of American liaison, helping out the Ministry whenever questions of American wizards arose. Which was never. He was at home a lot.  
  
Aside from being a complete moron who believed that repeating shitty jokes, each time louder than before, made them comic gold, Frank was also a selfish bastard. He wasn't a gold-digger or some queer phrase like that, in fact, he was the bread-winner in the house. My mum occasionally tutored Spanish, but since no one in Windsor gave a fajita fuck about the language, she didn't have much business. And by that, I mean she didn't have any business. At all. Ever. She was home a lot, too.  
  
Back to why Frank's selfish. Okay, maybe it's not a matter of selfishness, as it is a matter of pride. Frank never had any children. He was never married before he met mum. Wonder why. Anyway, after they got married, Frank asked me if I wanted to change my last name to Fletchley. I said no. More specifically, fuck no. I got in trouble. It happens.  
  
Although I declined the distinguished honor of having a name similar to an act that involves licking semen out of another person's asshole, my parents decided to fill out all forms that I was too young to handle (read: they wouldn't let me), with the name Justin Finch-Fletchley. I believe that this was at the request of Frank, probably because of my warm-hearted answer to his not-retarded-as-shit-at-all question.  
  
I must admit, despite my absolute non-interest in writing in this leather abortion, it has been quite enjoyable. I guess swearing profusely and bad-mouthing people we hate is always fun. Like a blowjob. Those are always fun. So I'm told. By my grandfather. Yeah, sick.  
  
Perhaps I'll return to these brown paper pages. Perhaps I won't. Deal with it.   
  
-Justin Finch.


End file.
